The Dead Hero's War
by The Profane Angel
Summary: An incident mentioned in Time After Time haunts Claire while they prosecute a particularly bloody murder. Introspective, deep backstory.


Deep backstory to an incident mentioned in Time After Time, an exploration of sorts of the real meaning of freedom of choice

Claire finally closed the file containing the crime scene photos, and pushed them across the desk. "Makes me want to take a shower. Christ." She shivered.

Jack looked at his watch, it was nine o'clock and the office was deserted. "So have one. It's time to get out of here anyway, my eyes are crossing, reading witness statements." He closed his file, then capped his pen, and leaned back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head. "We can get a drink first," he said, "although seeing you naked is far more appealing than a twelve year old scotch."

"Go do indecent things to yourself," she said, smiling. She pushed away from the desk and stretched, then rested her hands on her lower back. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather skip the bar and go home."

"Mine or yours?" He got up to rub her shoulders.

"Mine. I have more than a bar of Dial in my shower. Oh God, hit that spot again, please." Her shoulder drooped as his fingers dug into a knotted muscle. "God, don't stop, please."

He laughed. "If this office is bugged by Internal Investigations, that's going to make some tape." He used both hands on her shoulder, then moved to her neck. She slapped playfully at his hand even as a moan of pleasure escaped. He worked her shoulders for a few more minutes, then lightly slapped her butt. "Let's get out of here, I've seen enough gore, read enough, for one day."

She reached for her suit jacket. "He was a war hero. Why would someone want to chop him to pieces?" She picked up her purse. "And why didn't he fight back? Why didn't the crew try to stop it?"

He put his hand on her back as they walked out of the office, to the elevators. "Questions we'll hopefully get answers to." The doors slid open and they stepped in. As the doors closed, she leaned against him, her face in his neck, inhaling his scent. His arm held her loosely, his fingers toying with her hair, he felt her exhaustion as it radiated from her slender frame. As the car slowed, she stood away from him, exhaling, holding her briefcase handle with both hands. They walked through the lobby to the parking garage entrance.

"Want to ride with me?" she asked.

"Sure." He waited for her to unlock the door, then folded himself into the small car. She got in, tossing her briefcase over the bucket seat, narrowly missing his head.

"Sorry," she said, turning the ignition. "You're just too damned big for this car."

"Entirely my father's fault," he said.

She got lucky and found a parking spot near her building, and they walked in, holding hands, she kept bumping into him, and he hoped she stayed awake long enough to at least get the key in the door. He could only imagine the scenarios her neighbors would concoct if they saw him holding her up against the wall while trying to get into her apartment. She let them in, dropping her keys in the change dish on the end table by the couch and dropping her briefcase where she stood, pushing off her shoes at the same time. Jack was more orderly, he stood his briefcase on end, removed his shoes side by side, and hung his jacket in the closet. She was in her bedroom by the time he closed the closet door.

"You OK?" he called. "Want a drink?"

"I'm getting naked, I want a shower, then I'll take that drink. I cannot believe what happened today."

Jack found the bottle of scotch she kept for him in the cabinet and poured two glasses, taking one into the bedroom, where he found her naked and sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. He sat beside her, she rarely took murders this hard, she'd seen enough carnage at human hands to be somewhat desensitized. "Here," he said.

She raised her head, took the glass, and nodded. "Thanks," she said. "Will it help?"

"Sure," he lied. He put his arm around her, pulling her close, there was very little comfort to offer in situations like this, just affirmation of life in the face of horrible death. She took a few sips of the scotch, then handed the glass back to him and stood.

"I need a shower." She left him sitting on the bed and went into the bathroom. He put the glasses on the night table, then began undressing. He folded his clothes and left them on a chair, then pulled on the silk robe she'd given him for Christmas, for the times he stayed over with her. Then he took the glasses back to the living room and sat on the couch. The sound of running water stopped, and he waited; he was as disturbed by this crime as she was, but he couldn't show it. He heard the bathroom door open, heard her go into her bedroom. She joined him a few minutes later, in a silk robe of delicate green, stopping to put a CD in the player, her tastes were eclectic and he never knew what he'd hear. Blondie. He smiled. Good choice, Debbie Harry had a very sexy voice. Claire sat next to him and picked up the fuller glass, it had to be hers. She curled against him, and his arm circled her, stoking her shoulder.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Nominally." She slipped her free hand inside his robe and rubbed his stomach, abstractly, her thoughts were elsewhere. She sipped her drink. "This won't go to trial, will it? All those witnesses, the man just stood there once he'd…"

"Hush." He kissed her head. "It might, mental defect or disease, but we don't have to think about it now." His hand slid down, he rubbed her side, felt the curve of her hip. He sensed the shift within her; she leaned forward and put her glass on the battered coffee table, she kept meaning to refinish it, but there was never time. He put his glass on the end table and waited, this would have to be her move. She put her arms around his neck and slipped into his lap.

"Jack," she whispered.

"Hmm."

"What is it you say about reaffirming life in the face of death?" He heard the throaty desire in her voice, the urge to blot out the scenes in the pictures by whatever means possible.

He opened her sash with one pull, then yanked his. He slipped her robe off her shoulders, then shifted her to straddle him. His hands on her hips, she eased down on him, then pressed her face into his shoulder. "Go slow," he whispered, "just go until you don't care about anything else."

She rode him, slowly indeed, and then faster, facing him, her face against his, her arms around his neck while he held her hips, until she arched away from him with a small cry and he went off like the fourth of July. He held her as her spasms eased, his breathing ragged, her body pressed against him, glued to him by sweat and need and release. "Sweet Jesus," she muttered, and she stroked the back of his head. Then she got up, moving carefully, letting him slide out, settling against him again after reaching for her drink. "I think I'll sleep tonight," she said, and smiled, she had such a sweet, vulnerable smile. She drained the scotch and stood, picking up her robe. "I'm going to bed, coming with me?"

"Sure." He got up and tied his robe, then took her glass and carried both glasses into the kitchen, where he rinsed them and left them in the sink. She turned out the lamps, then took his hand and led him into her bedroom. She turned back the covers as he shed his robe, and they got into bed. He flipped the light switch, then gathered her against him, spooned, his chin on her shoulder and the delicate scent of her shampoo in his nostrils. It was a cool night, autumn in New York, and she had the window open a few inches. She pulled the covers up to their shoulders, then let her body relax against his, they fit so well together, whether it was walking down a street, making love, or merely sleeping, their bodies fit each other perfectly, and she could relax, his arm around her, feeling safe from the things that moved in the darkness.

The alarm went off at six. She sat up, smacking it with more vehemence that usual, she'd been sleeping soundly, peacefully, and now she faced the day, faced a case she suspected would haunt her dreams for some time to come. Jack slept, so she got up and slipped her robe over her cold shoulders, then went to make coffee before showering.

Jack was awake, just getting out of bed, when she came in from the shower. She smiled. "And I always said you could sleep through the second coming of Christ."

"Coffee," he said. "I smelled coffee, and here I am." He shook his head, as if to clear it. "Where'd I drop my - oh." He bent down for his robe, then put it on as he stood. "Lead me to the coffee," he said, "because otherwise, I'm not going to know my ass from my elbow for hours to come." He rubbed his face. "Jesus, what did you do to me last night?"

She smiled over her shoulder. "Laid you, why?"

"Damn," he said, reaching over her for his favorite mug, one she had given him just for the hell of it, a white mug with red lettering: not all men are bastards, some are dead. "I'm sore." He grinned, pouring. "Last time I let you have your way with me for awhile."

"Want me to kiss it and make it better?" She held her mug out and he filled it.

"Oh hell no, you'd probably bite it." He draped his arm companionably around her shoulders as they walked to the couch. "How are you feeling?"

She sighed. "Like I don't want to go there, but I have to. Like this case is a-" she paused, searching for a phrase to describe exactly how she felt about this case.

"Like a duty fuck?"

She gave him a gentle kick with her bare foot. "If you want to look at it that way, yes. But can we not talk about it until we actually get to work?"

He leaned over and kissed her, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, her cheek, his tongue meeting hers, then he looked at her. "Absolutely, my sweet Claire." He eased back into the couch and sipped his coffee, watching her face, reading her emotional state. She wiggled her shoulder into his arm pit, curling her legs under her bottom, holding her mug with both hands, raising it to her mouth that way, a little kid afraid of spilling. He draped his arm around her, and they sat in silence, the day would be noisy enough all too soon. Then Jack sighed, finished his coffee, and eased off the couch, dislodging her as gently as possible.

"Shower," he muttered, "then Adam." He took his mug to the sink, then she heard him go into the bathroom. She got up to wash the glasses and mugs, leaving them in the wooden drain to dry, then went into her room to get dressed. She chose black pants and a long sleeved black tee shirt to go under a charcoal blazer; she draped them over the chair and Jack's clothes before making her bed. She was dressed when Jack walked in, naked, and she opened a drawer, tossing a pair of shorts to him. Then she poked around in her closet for a pair of black heels. He was tucking his shirttail in with great care when she turned around, and she laughed.

"You can't be that sore."

He zipped his jeans with equal, if not more, care. "Wanna bet?" He grinned. "Worth it though, unless some asshole defendant decides to knee me in the balls."

"Quit making such insulting deal offers and you'll stop getting kicked in the balls," she said. While it had only happened once - a defendant at Rikers took great offense at Jack's offer of twenty-five to life for gutting his girlfriend and had surprised everyone by standing and kneeing Jack squarely in the balls before anyone knew it happened - she still teased him about it. Jack no longer walked within ten feet of a defendant now if he was leaving ahead of the accused; Claire remembered the shock, the shouting, the CO rushing in and slamming the dirt bag on the table, Jack writhing on the floor, and Danielle Melnick standing back from the fray with an amused smile. Claire had glared at her as she knelt beside Jack, who, red-faced and clearly in agony, had managed to get up and walk unaided until they were outside of Rikers, when he'd leaned on her arm, walking like he was mortally wounded. They weren't yet lovers, but she'd been as solicitous as possible, helping him into the car, offering to stop for ice, whatever she could think of. He'd declined her offers and she let him suffer in silence.

"Hmmph," was his response. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

They got to work at seven-fifteen, only to find Adam already there and waiting for them. Jack changed from his jeans into suit pants and a tie, and then they met with Adam, who eyeballed them for a few seconds, then cleared his throat.

"The governor wants this to be a death penalty case."

"Did you tell him that's not too likely, that a defense of mental disease or defect will no doubt carry the day?"

"I did, do I look stupid?" He aimed a very specific eye at Jack when he said that. "Still, he's the governor, he can say anything he wants, ask for anything he wants, and he's making noises about all the hanky-panky in this office distracting my DA's from their primary job, which is to get death sentences for those defendants he gets a hard-on for. Heard from the defense yet?"

"Adam, I just got here."

"You and Ms. Kincaid just got here," he corrected. "Go, see what you can do, look like you have work on your mind."

They slipped through the side door and into Jack's office, where last night's files still sat on the desks. Claire sighed. "Switch with me, let me read instead of look."

"Sure." They exchanged files, and she sat, tapping the top of the file with her finger. She knew the killing was on tape, if Jack forced her to watch that, she'd probably hurl. It was simple enough on its surface: Jeff Lankin, a war hero with both the Medal of Honor and Silver Star on his chest, had sold out to Hollywood when he got out of the army, agreeing to star in a TV series about a war hero turned private investigator, with the promise that some of his exploits would be included in the action sequences. Yesterday, on the set, a camera operator had picked up what was supposed to be a prop sword and turned it on Lankin, beheading him and then hacking him to pieces in less than a minute. Impaling the sword in Lankin's chest, he sat on the bloody floor and awaited the police, refusing to speak a single word.

She opened the file, flipping through pages until she found the initial background sheet on the defendant, one Kumar Hussein, American by birth, raised in Detroit, graduate of USC's film school, and generally known as a good guy - non-observant religiously, friendly, happy. This, she thought, was going to be a major clusterfuck - a Muslim whacking an American war hero, very publicly and very violently. She looked for the background on Larkin - West Point, infantry platoon commander and then company commander, Ranger qualified, also considered a good guy, a heavy drinker and fond of the company of women, but also considered arrogant and unbending. Clusterfuck, she thought, using one of Jack's favorite terms for a huge mess that would come back to bite them.

Jack's office door opened as the knock sounded, and a middle-aged man with a bad hair cut and an off the rack suit came in. Deep lines around his mouth and eyes marred what would have been an otherwise pleasant face. "Ah, the dynamic duo," he said, walking up to them. "Tom Devers, Attorney General's office." He lifted the file off Claire's desk, her eyebrows arched but she glanced at Jack, who'd crossed his arms and was staring at this man. Devers glanced through the papers, then put the file back. "I don't care how you do it, but the governor wants this man to get the needle. Run through as many shrinks as necessary, but do not let him get away with a nuts defense. I'll be around, the governor feels this case needs a little personal supervision."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Jack asked.

"Precisely what I said. The governor wants me to give this case my personal attention, make sure no one gets distracted from the bigger issues. Nice meeting you." He turned and walked out before Jack could reply.

"Son of a bitch," Jack said, as if he was making polite conversation. "Get all you can on Larkin, his service record in particular." He stared at the door, as if Devers was going to walk back in. "Uh, now, Claire," he said, and she started, unaccustomed to that tone, and got up, heading for her office.

Three hours later she had Jeffrey David Larkin's service record on her desk, along with a large Starbucks coffee and an attitude. She closed her door, then sat with pad and pen and opened the thick file. Graduated at the top of his class at West Point, same for Ranger and jump schools, did his masters at the University of North Carolina, then went back for a tour with the infantry, this time as a company commander. His unit received multiple citations for excellence - his Silver Star came when Larkin's platoon rescued a downed Blackhawk's crew, his Medal of Honor when he pulled troops from a burning Humvee while under heavy fire from the Republican Guards. He left the Army when his obligation expired, and his good looks, combined with his exploits, drew attention and he signed to do the show about the PI, which was filmed in New York. His file noted he drank excessively prior to deploying for Desert Storm, that he had numerous girlfriends, and was supporting one son after paternity had been established by a court. There was nothing in his service record to indicate what he might have done to piss off Kumar Hussein, and nothing in his civilian life provided context, either. The crew working on the show liked him, he was good in his role, he liked to party when the day was done, including crew dogs as well as co-stars. Claire was getting a major headache trying to piece this one together.

Her phone rang. "Kincaid."

"Want lunch?"

She fought a smile, damn it, that man could make her smile if he was telling her she stank and she really sucked in the sack. "You buying?"

"Don't I always?"

"Sure. I'll be right there." She hung up and secured the files in her desk, locking the drawer. She picked up her blazer and purse. "I'm going to lunch," she said to Tim, who was bent over his computer keyboard. He waved a hand to acknowledge her, and she slid the blazer on as she walked to Jack's office. He was leaning against his office door, long, lean, and so sexy she sometimes thought she'd embarrass herself just looking at him. He had his hands in his pockets, oh so casual, he stood up straight when she got there, putting a hand on her back and guiding her to the elevator.

"What do you feel like?" he asked.

"I dunno, something light, this thing has my stomach in an uproar."

Alone in the elevator, he kissed her. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "for snapping at you."

"Accepted."

The elevator stopped on five and two more people got on. Jack and Claire rode down to the first floor silently, two discreet feet between them. They left the building and Jack led her to a quiet restaurant two blocks around the corner, with tablecloths, waiters, and real silver. She smiled. He was apologizing. Lunch was usually a hot dog on the street, or something from a diner. He held her chair for her, then sat across from her, smiling as he shook his napkin into his lap. The waiter brought menus.

"I was thinking," he said, "that we'd knock off early tonight, maybe go to the movies."

She grinned. "I told you I accepted your apology. Or has Mr. Winkie recovered from last night's workout and you're shopping for a replay?"

He blushed. "Let's not discuss Mr. Winkie, he's entirely too interested in the conversation."

"My God, guys really do think with their dicks, don't they?"

He shook his head. "I refuse to acknowledge that bit of urban myth." He looked up and took a menu from the waiter, ordering a scotch while he perused the menu; Claire asked for water and looked at the lunch choices. She'd told Jack the truth, she wasn't sure her stomach could take much, it was in an uproar over the horrors of yesterday. One thought kept bothering her, she couldn't make it go away, and once the waiter had served their drinks and taken their orders, she looked at Jack, not realizing she was telegraphing her angst; he reached across the table for her hand.

"Jack, do you think, I mean when someone's beheaded, do you think their brain continues to function for a minute or two? There' anecdotal evidence to support it, during the French Revolution…"

He squeezed her hand, then laced his fingers through hers. "No, I don't think so."

"Why not? When Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded, witnesses said her lips kept moving, that she was mouthing "Oh Jesus" over and over."

He shook his head, Smith College and its liberal arts education, Claire had always loved history, leave it to her to remember things like that. "Involuntary muscle movement," he said.

"Why are you always so certain of things?"

"Because if I wasn't, I'd be nuts. If you want to spend your life contemplating your navel, Claire, you're in the wrong field. We deal in black and white, right and wrong, practice legal ass kicking." His thumb caressed hers. "Don't even think about it, it's legend, that's all, makes for good ghost stories to terrorize nine year olds around the campfire. Think instead of life, of affirming life and goodness in the face of the evil we see all too often."

Her salad and his steak sandwich arrived, she wasn't sure she could force any of it down, but she'd try, for his sake as much as anything. "And what's the ultimate affirmation of life, Jack?"

His eyebrows arched and his crooked smile flashed, his Cocker Spaniel eyes reflecting his amusement, expecting her answer. "I'm not sure, but you'll tell me."

"A friend of mine is an oncologist, she has five kids. She said giving birth was the ultimate affirmation of life in the face of all the death she dealt with, lost to."

Jack cocked his head. "Are you trying to tell me something, or is this just a philosophical conversation?"

"Just a conversation, although I admit the idea of a baby grows more appealing every time a new case lands on your desk."

"We've had this conversation, we've dealt with it."

She looked down at her plate, forked lettuce, then put it down, her stomach closed and she wanted to vomit. He looked alarmed at the change in her expression, then she lurched away from the table and hurried to the ladies room.

Coffee and bile came up, then dry heaves. When they'd subsided, she wiped her mouth with a damp paper towel, then studied her reflection. She could pass a casual inspection, but not Jack's, and she didn't want to have the argument that one worked through whatever personal crisis one faced no matter what, that everyone could be replaced, that while sympathy was nice, in the end it came down to whether one could do one's job or not, and if not, the door was that way. She walked back to the table, he stood as she sat down, and his concern was clearly written on his face.

"You're not OK, so tell me what's going on," he said.

"This case. I've never seen a human being butchered, seen so much blood and gore, I can't get the images out of my mind."

Jack had finished his sandwich while she was in the bathroom, and now he finished his scotch. "And that's all?"

She sipped her water, wanting to wash the vile taste out of her mouth. "Jack, if you're asking if I'm pregnant, ask, and the answer is I assume not, modern pharmaceuticals and all that. I'm just having trouble handling those images, knowing they're real, not some movie, knowing I'm going to have to investigate the dead hero's war and try to find answers, a reason this otherwise nice kid operating the camera would turn on him and chop him up like a lamb in a Baghdad butcher shop."

He signaled for the check, left ample cash with it in the hard plastic holder, then got up and took Claire's elbow, gently helping her to her feet. "Can you go back to work? You don't have to, I can handle it for today."

"What's the agenda for the afternoon?"

They stepped out into a beautiful autumn afternoon, and he tightened his grip on her elbow. "Talking to Hussein at Rikers. I'm not sure you can deal with that." They turned left, working their way back to Hogan Place.

"It's my job, I better be able to handle it," she said, trying to hide the bitterness in her voice.

She couldn't hide much from Jack. He stopped her on the sidewalk, edged her against a building. Looking down from his superior height, he touched her face. "Ordinarily, I'd say yes, but there's no reason for you to face this man right now, not with those images so fresh in your mind. He's going to scare you to death right now. I think you have the flu and should take the rest of the day off."

"But there's so much to do -"

"And it will still be there tomorrow. Go home, go to bed, take a long bath, read some trashy novel, whatever makes you happy, and I'll get there as close to six as I can. C'mon, Claire, there's no need for you to put yourself through this right now."

Right now. She pondered those words, then shrugged. "You're sure?"

"I'm very sure."

"And our Mr. Devers?"

"He can go have carnal knowledge of himself. If you're sick, you're sick." They started walking again. "I'll be there when I can, just take care of yourself, OK?"

She nodded. They parted at the entrance to the building, he went into the business arena, she went into the parking garage. She drove home, got lucky again, and soon locked herself into her apartment. She undressed, stepping into a pair of sweatpants and then pulling a gray, worn oversized tee shirt with 'Captain, Smith Sleeping Team' imprinted in fading letters on the front. She put Blondie back in the CD player, and then stretched out on the couch, piling several throw pillows behind her head, crossing her feet at the ankles. Her hands rested, folded one on top of the other, on her flat stomach. She thought of Jack, preparing for, going to, Rikers to interview Kumar Hussein, he would be hard, she knew, radiating testosterone, the ADA from hell as far as young Mr. Hussein was concerned.

She did sleep. She dreamed of swimming, of a large pool she had all to herself, swimming laps until she was exhausted, then climbing out to find Jack standing there, holding a towel. Then they were in bed, she dreamed of the first time they'd made love, of the mad passion, the unquenchable desire for flesh on flesh, the joy of it. She dreamed of cooking, some strange stew, while thunder rumbled outside and Jack sat on a countertop, drinking scotch.

When she woke, he was coming through the door, his helmet and his briefcase in his hands. He put them away, then came and knelt beside the couch. She reached up and brushed his hair with her fingers, still caught in the dream. He smiled, put his hand on her stomach, kissed her. She moved over to make some room for him on the couch. He kicked off his loafers and stretched out with her, easing her halfway onto his body, cradling her.

"You slept all afternoon?"

"Guess so. How did it go at Rikers?"

"The man has nothing to say. His sister is coming in tomorrow, I'm hoping she can tell us something. I'd like you to interview her."

"I can do that."

"Claire."

She looked up at him. "Jack."

"Are you pregnant?"

She let her head fall back to his shoulder. "I assume not, I told you. Why do you ask?"

"Throwing up, sleeping so much, peeing every five minutes."

"I do not." She tried to laugh. "Since when do you keep up with how often I pee? Or know I throw up? Jesus, it's those images, they make me sick."

His hand slipped under her tee shirt and he stroked her back. "What do you think woke me up this morning? I know what the sound of retching is."

She sighed. "Again, it's those pictures. I can't get them out of my mind." She rolled on top of him and framed his face with her hands, her thumbs on either side of his mouth. "Would it ruin our lives if I was?"

"It wouldn't make me the happiest man in the world," he said, continuing to stroke her back. "But I wouldn't cut and run, either. But you're just getting going in your career, you're turning into a hell of a lawyer, would you put all that on hold for a kid?"

"I haven't thought about it, truthfully, but no, I wouldn't want to have a child right now. What on earth brought all this on?"

His thumb was running up and down her spine, something he would do when he was thinking, touching her seemed to ground his thoughts. "I was married, I fathered a child. I know certain things." His thumb was still then. "You went to South Dakota last month."

"Yeah, I know, dumbass deposition, Adam owes me big time for that goat rope." Her elbows dug into his shoulders as she straightened up, looking at him. "Oh Jesus Christ, Jack McCoy, you could ruin a wet dream." She got up then, walked to the windows, she'd forgotten about that, her luggage had been delayed a few days, but she assumed it wouldn't make much difference, so she missed a few days of her pills. She stared down at the street, at headlights and people walking, shadows that became human when they passed under a streetlight, then shadows again. He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and she shook him off, moving away, angry; more images to swirl in her brain like a blender on high. "We aren't going there, Jack."

He stood where she'd left him, his hands in his pockets, watching her. "OK."

She sorted through her CD collection, picked one, then Jefferson Airplane blew through the speakers. She adjusted the sound, her hands moving to the shelving for support. Visions of a dismembered man suddenly merged with images of a fetus broken into parts as it was removed, and she couldn't take it, she started crying. He moved to her, his arms going around her waist, and this time she turned to him, holding on to him, soaking his shirt. He held her head against his shoulder, his other hand on her waist. A few minutes later, she pulled away, saying "You're imagining things, Jack." She went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, closed it, opened it again and grabbed a bottle of wine. She poured a glass, Jack could find his scotch, she wasn't going to wait on him. She sat on the couch, listening to 'White Rabbit' and wondering what it had been like to live through those times.

"Ever wanted to have Grace Slick arrested just so you could meet her?"

Jack laughed, sitting next to her on the couch. "Nope. I figure anyone who survived the San Francisco sixties, lived past twenty-seven, should live in peace now." He picked up her hand, interlaced his fingers with hers. "Although I do have tickets for the concert."

"Yeah?" She looked at him. Tickets to see Jefferson Starship? Way cool.

"So I thought I'd educate my way too young girlfriend through music."

She elbowed him. "Smartass."

He put a foot on the coffee table, wiggled his toes. "About tomorrow."

"What about it."

"You can deal with it? I think his sister would be more willing to talk to you than me."

"You mean she'd be more willing to talk to a woman."

"No, I mean you. You're a lot less intimidating than I am."

"I'll suck the truth out of her like an out of control Hoover." She grinned.

"You do that." He leaned down and kissed her. "While you're running amok with her, I'll be interviewing the crew. Devers wants those interviews on tape, so try to make me look presentable in the morning." He grinned.

She leaned against him. "I'll do that." They were quiet for awhile, listening to the music, absorbed in their own thoughts. She was unsettled, suddenly afraid, but she didn't want to betray those emotions to Jack. He could always hide his, he had a mask he could drop in a millisecond that hid every thought, but she hadn't acquired that skill yet. She put her wine glass on the coffee table and got up. "Gotta pee," she said to his arched eyebrows, hating the look that clouded his puppy dog eyes, but she had slept all afternoon and just finished a glass of wine, of course she had to pee. She went in the bathroom, took care of business, and tried to remember when her period was due. Three days ago. Fuck me, she thought, then opened the door and turned out the light. "You up for dinner?" she asked, pausing by the open kitchen area.

"Sure," he said, and got up to help. "What do we have?"

"Pasta and some jarred sauce?"

"Works for me." He kissed the back of her neck. "In case I forget to tell you later, I love you."

Claire waited in her office for Selah Hussein. She'd had Tim make a fresh pot of coffee, and she'd cleared her desk, she wore black pants and a white oxford, with a colorful scarf draped around her neck. Low heels to minimize her height. The woman arrived on time, and Tim showed her in. Claire stood.

"Miss Hussein, I'm Claire Kincaid." She offered her hand.

Selah Hussein took it, her hand was warm and dry. "I am so sorry for my brother," she said. She was a striking woman, almost as tall as Claire, with silky black hair and eyes; she was dressed in khakis and an oxford shirt under a tweed blazer. When Claire offered the chair on the other side of her desk, she sat, crossing her legs and waiting for Claire to make the next move, studying her intently.

"What can you tell us about your brother? What could have motivated him to do such a thing? And would you like coffee?" She buzzed Tim, who stuck his head in, holding the door handle. "Coffee, please, Tim." He nodded. The silence felt heavy to Claire, she was uncomfortably aware of the way this woman was looking at her. Tim came in with two cups of coffee and placed them on Claire's desk.

Selah reached for hers, holding the saucer with one hand while turning a framed photograph on Claire's desk around. "Your family?" she asked, looking at a picture of three girls under a tree, taken years ago.

"No, school friends," she answered.

Selah sipped her coffee. "Where did you go to school, Miss Kincaid?"

"Undergrad at Smith, then Harvard Law."

"Yet you have no I love me wall."

Claire smiled. "No, I don't. Where I went to school does not determine how well I do my job."

"Yet you have pictures of your friends instead of family on your desk."

Claire shrugged. "Sometimes friends become family. Tell me about your family, Miss Hussein."

"Selah. Please call me Selah. We are very Western, very American, Miss Kincaid. Born and raised here, by parents who born here. Non-observant. My father was too busy for what he called religious mumbo-jumbo, and my mother worked, too, she was a social worker. My father taught at an exclusive private school until he retired last year. Kumar and I were given excellent educations and expected to put them to use." She eased the cup and saucer back on the desk. "If you expect me to have answers about my brother's breakdown, I have to tell you, I haven't talked to him in a couple of years." She shrugged. "I've been busy with my career, he with his. He was pleased to get this job, working in the arts is a difficult job."

"So what do you do?"

"I teach political science at a small university." She smiled, almost teasingly. Her dark eyes seemed to dance with humor and good will, as if this was a social call, an introduction. "Molding young minds and all that."

"Did you and your brother ever discuss politics?"

"You mean Desert Storm?" She shrugged. "What was there to discuss? Oil drives the world, Miss Kincaid, we both know that."

"Claire," she said, "Call me Claire. So Kumar had no issues with the war?"

"It was over very quickly, and oil continued to flow. What was there to discuss? As I said, we're not an observant family, so the whole infidels in the Holy Land nonsense never came up."

"Could he have changed in the past two years? Suddenly found religion? And then finds himself working with a hero from that war?"

She shrugged. "He could, I wouldn't know. As for heroes, well," and she laughed, "they gave out medals like candy, did you know that? No real heroism, just a little extra effort and you had a major award. They gave out Bronze Stars just for showing up, Purple Hearts for cutting your finger opening a can of Coke." She wove her fingers together in her lap. "Perhaps I should take you to lunch, Claire, give that Smith education a little continuing ed on current political trends. Or we could discuss sexual politics, I notice you're the one interviewing me and not the lead prosecutor, Mr. McCoy. Now, there's a man with an 'I have a big dick' complex." Her merry smile lit her face again, her eyes glowed with good humor and that same teasing. "I overheard him 'discussing' shall we say, the unfortunate incidents of yesterday with an old man as I walked by on my way here."

Yeah well, he does have a big dick, Claire thought, then suppressed that thought. "Mr. McCoy was being considerate, he thought you might prefer talking to a woman."

"The second string?" She smiled again. "I'm worthy of the second string, but some idiot from the sound booth, who probably knows nothing of my brother, gets a one on one with the big boy? How do you tolerate that, Claire?"

"It's called second chair, for one, not second string. It in no way implies I'm inferior to Jack as an attorney, just less experienced."

"Jack?' Her eyes moved over Claire's face. "I see. Less experienced as a trial lawyer, so you get to do the scut work, the research, run the errands. Do you get to try your own cases, Claire, or must you always walk two steps behind Mr. McCoy?"

OK, Claire thought, how did this conversation get hijacked? "I do try my own cases, but I'm second chair on this one, and we're talking about your brother, who stand accused of a heinous crime. I was hoping you'd have some insight into his reasoning."

"Is there ever reasoning when someone's mental faculties go awry and they do terrible things?" She crossed her legs, reached for her cup and saucer, sipped her coffee while watching Claire over the rim of her cup. "My father has hired an attorney for Kumar, of course, we know he's obviously not sane, but we know nothing beyond that." She put her coffee down. "I'd like to help you, though, to help my brother. I'd be glad to visit him at whatever prison you have him in, see if he'll talk to me, if I can discern whatever was at work within him when he did this terrible thing. Where is he?"

"Rikers."

"Lovely place, or so I've heard. Would I have a problem visiting him?"

"I can arrange it."

"Good. I'd like to see him as soon as possible, do you think you can arrange it for one o'clock?"

"Sure." Claire made a quick note on a Post-It pad.

Selah stood, and Claire pushed away from her desk, standing as well. Selah held out her hand and Claire took it. "Then I'll see you very soon, Claire, I'll call when I've seen Kumar, let you know how helpful I can be. And we should have that lunch or dinner, discuss women's issues - it must be difficult working among so many men, especially when one is as beautiful as you are." Her smile was knowing. "Men will hit on anything, won't they? I'd love to hear how you deal with it, we can compare notes. Thank you for the coffee, and I'll be in touch soon." She left the office, and Claire noticed for the first time the delicate perfume that lingered in the room. Now what the fuck was that, she wondered, and she walked out of her office, in search of Jack.

He was at his desk, frowning down at a document with a suspicious blue backing. He looked up when she came in and smiled. "Hey," he said, "how'd it go?"

"It was interesting. Would you give Riker's a call, by the way, get Selah Hussein in to see Kumar at one?"

"Sure." He picked up the phone and hit a button, made arrangements, then leaned back and looked at her, his hands folded across his stomach. "So what was so interesting?"

"She's very bright, attractive, and I got the distinct impression she was hitting on me."

"Yeah? Well, keep me informed." That crooked smile appeared, deflecting her urge to whack him upside the head. "Did she have any information?"

Claire related the conversation, she had an excellent memory for detail, and he listened carefully. "Sounds like she might be helpful, keep in touch with her." He picked up the blueback and offered it. "Affirmative defense, as expected - mental disease or defect. His lawyer is Stuart Carson."

"Daddy must be loaded. Selah said he was hiring a lawyer."

"I've beaten Stuart before and I can do it again." Jack put the blueback on the stack of other papers. "Seriously, how are you doing? How are you feeling?"

She sighed. "I'm tired, I should be, it's been a long morning, but otherwise I'm fine."

"Hungry?"

"No, but I'll keep you company if you want to eat."

They had lunch in the park, on a bench, Jack was a street food junkie, whereas the idea of a hot dog nauseated Claire. She worked on a Diet Coke while he ate, listening to him talk about counter-motions and 730 exams and who was more nuts, the shrink or the defendant, busy talk to keep him from stating what was obvious to him - he had a pregnant girlfriend and she was going to deny it as long as possible. He knew better than to bring it up again, she'd face it when she had to, but by God, each day she waited made it that much more difficult. After eating and walking back to the office, he sent her to the law library, he wanted everything he could find on this particular defense while he went to visit Elizabeth Olivet, ostensibly to discuss the defendant.

"Jack." Liz rose from her desk and smiled. "I haven't had a chance to review any documents yet."

He closed the door. "That's not exactly why I'm here."

"Oh. OK. Have a seat." She noticed he took a chair instead of the couch, so she settled on it, in the corner, crossing her legs and waiting. This was not a man who talked about his feelings easily, she anticipated a rambling, circular approach to whatever was bothering him.

He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He looked at Liz, then sighed. "It's Claire. I'm sure she's pregnant and she's in a major state of denial."

Liz frowned. "I'd think she'd know better than you, Jack."

"Hurls in the morning, hurls when certain smells hit her, sleeps every chance she gets, tender breasts, and while I don't keep up with her periods, I'm pretty damn sure she's late. She went out to South Dakota last month to take a deposition from a hospitalized witness and her luggage took three days to catch up with her. Now, I'm no expert in female biology, but I have had a pregnant wife, and I'm pretty sure that if you miss taking your pill for a few days, you could have trouble."

Liz nodded. "So why is she denying it?"

"I have no idea. I brought it up and she told me basically that I was imagining things. Look, I'm not going to cut and run if she's pregnant, but I'm too old to be a father again, go through that whole middle of the night screaming baby thing, and Claire's said repeatedly she doesn't want kids yet."

"So why aren't you talking to her?"

"Because she won't talk about it. I hoped maybe she'd talk to you about it."

"We aren't that close, Jack, I'm not sure she'd take it well if I brought it up. It isn't my business. I think you need to make her talk about it, you're pretty good at pinning people down."

"Not her, for Christ's sake. I'm not about to treat her like a witness."

"Then all I can say is go with whatever she goes with. If she's somehow decided she wants to have a baby, you're sort of stuck. You can't force her to have an abortion."

"I know. I wouldn't, anyway."

"Scares you, though, doesn't it?"

"Scares the hell out of me. And I don't understand why she won't talk to me about it."

"Probably because she's scared, too. Give her some time."

He nodded. "Not much choice, is there?" He got up then. "I'll get the initial psych reports over to you this afternoon, set up an exam time for you, then we'll meet and see where we stand."

She stood and touched his elbow. "I'm sorry, Jack, I hope this all turns out to be some false alarm or - well, I just hope it works out."

Claire finished compiling her research, tired as hell. She put the reports on Jack's desk, wondering where the hell he was, and then went back to her office. She desperately wanted a nap. She still had to compile the psychological reports and messenger them over to Olivet, then only God knew what would come out Jack's fertile little brain. Tim walked to his desk, carrying takeout, Thai she guessed, as the smell hit her nose and went straight to her stomach. She had time to grab her trash can, dying of embarrassment, as Tim stuck his head in the office and saw her communing with her steel trash can.

"Claire?"

"Go," she groaned, then heaved again. He closed the door and left her alone with her misery. Jack was no doubt right, the little bastard, she thought, then, heaves over, rinsed her mouth with what was handy, Diet Coke. She leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, praying for a way to smuggle the trash can liner out, praying harder that Jack was wrong, but agnostic that she was, Claire had no expectation of answered prayer. She had to get out of there, she was going to scream if she had to handle one more thing when all she wanted was to be in bed, to sleep for a week.

She grabbed the trash can liner and spun it until it was as small as possible, then she grabbed her purse and coat and left her office. Tim looked at her. "Flu," she mumbled, then went into the ladies room to dump the liner in the bigger trash can in there. When she came out, she headed for the elevators. When the car opened, Jack stepped out. Claire cursed as fluently as possible.

"Claire? Where are you going?"

"Home, Jack, I think I have the flu." She stepped past him into the car. He turned and looked at her as the doors closed. When she got out on the first floor, she saw Anita Van Buren and cursed in yet another three or four languages, then changed her mind when she saw Anita's kind smile.

"Where are you off to, Counselor? I'd hoped to talk to you about this Larkin mess."

Oh Jesus. A decapitated head lying on its top filled her mind and she grabbed her stomach, willing it to be still. Anita's eyes widened, and she took Claire's elbow. "You come with me," she whispered, fiercely, dragging Claire with her to the parking garage entrance. God it smelled in there, and Claire battled her stomach again, losing the battle this time. Anita shielded her as she dry heaved against the wall. "Where's your car, Claire?" Claire pointed. "Give me your keys." Claire simply handed her purse to Anita and allowed herself to be led in the general direction of her car, gesturing to the right one. Anita unlocked the passenger door and eased Claire inside, then got in on the driver's side and cranked the engine. "Where do you live?"

Anita drove to Claire's neighborhood, then used her cell phone to let Lennie Briscoe know she'd be out of touch for a little while, to call on the cell if there was an emergency. Then she walked with Claire up to the apartment.

"Nice place," she said, putting Claire's keys on the end table. "Now, what the hell is wrong with you? You're sick, why are you working?"

Claire sank down on the couch, maybe it would do her good to talk to someone who wasn't responsible for the problem, who might have the perspective of age and experience. "I have Diet Coke in the refrigerator," she said, and Anita went into the kitchen, coming back with two. She sat next to her young friend, who had tears in her eyes. "Thank you," she said, and opened the drink.

"Claire." Anita put her hand on Claire's thigh. "I've had two kids, I recognize the signs - puking at the smell of a parking garage is high on the list."

"I don't know that I'm pregnant."

"Bullshit."

She looked at Anita and smiled, she'd never heard the little lieutenant let go with profanity before. "No, I don't know for sure. I'm too chicken to pee on a stick. Jack will kill me."

"I doubt that, since Jack had something to do with it. I'll walk down to the bodega and get a stick to pee on, girl. But you have the look, sweetie, I've been there." She got up. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Claire changed into a pair of sweatpants and a Harvard tee shirt while Anita was gone. She felt like hell, emotionally more than physically, Jack was going to pitch a fit and fall in it. She was working on the Diet Coke when Anita came back, a small paper bag in hand. She gave it to Claire. "Go," she said.

The directions said any time of day would work, it would take two minutes, and the dual blue lines would be a positive reading. Claire peed on it, washed her hands, and walked out with the offending stick. She sat with Anita, on the couch, staring at the damn thing as two blue lines formed. Claire threw it across the room and began crying. Anita held her, her maternal instincts always came out when this young woman was around, and she whispered to her, that it would be fine, there were choices, Jack McCoy was a man and he would take care of his responsibilities. All Claire heard was the comforting sound of her voice, then the tears passed and she sat up, snatching a Kleenex from the box on the end table.

"Jesus, you'd think I was sixteen," she said, wiping her eyes.

"It doesn't matter how old you are if you turn up pregnant when you don't want to be, it feels like world's ending. I know, just ask me how I felt when son number two came along. Of course, I love him to death, but I was not happy finding out I was pregnant. What do you think Jack will say, why are you so afraid?"

"Jack already knows," she snorted. "He told me, and I told him he was nuts. But he's made it clear he thinks he's too old for the whole baby bit, and I sure as hell hate the idea of putting my career on hold." More tears moistened her eyes, and she blotted them. "What kind of idiot gets pregnant by accident these days?"

Anita smiled. "Nothing's foolproof, and let's face it, you're at an age where God meant for you to reproduce."

"Tell that to Jack, I'd love to hear his response to that one."

The phone rang, and Claire looked at Anita. "Would you get that? I can't handle talking to anyone, Adam's probably looking to fire my ass."

Anita picked up the phone with a brisk hello. "Ah, Jack, the man of the hour. Yes, this is indeed Anita Van Buren. I'm taking care of your very sick, very pregnant girlfriend, and you should get your skinny ass over here and be responsible. Same to you, Counselor, I'll see you later." She hung up and made a face at Claire. "I always did want to tell McCoy he has a skinny ass. Sorry if I overstepped, but you did say he told you he thought you were pregnant."

She nodded. "It's OK, I was dreading it anyway."

"Any idea what you're going to do?"

"The obvious, I guess. Neither of us wants to be parents, but this damn case is going to take up so much time."

"There are more than two ADA's at Hogan Place, and judges grant continuances all the time. Jack's creative, he'll come up with a good reason. But are you sure you want to go that route? I understand it's very hard on a woman's heart."

Claire nodded. "I know. I have friends who've done it, I've held their hands through the aftermath, but I can't have a child right now, and Jack will absolutely freak at the thought of another child."

Anita smiled. "Well, he did take that scenic highway to heaven, you didn't do this by yourself, he's a big boy and he knows he can't evade the consequences. I halfway expected it long before this, you two radiate lust, I'm not kidding, it's so obvious Helen Keller would know she was in the room with horny people. I've never seen two people so incapable of keeping their hands off each other."

"You're kidding."

"All that incidental hand contact, body brushing, pats on the back in passing? Those meaningful looks? Get real, Claire." She laughed.

Claire shook her head. "Oh well." She got up, she had to pee again, and she stopped for another Diet Coke on the way back. "I hope like hell this doesn't get out. Tim caught me hurling my trash can today."

Anita shrugged. "It's nobody's business, just do what you have to do and get on with things."

Their heads turned at the sound of a key in the door. Jack walked in, tossing his helmet on the table. He went straight to Claire and pulled her to her feet, enfolding her in his arms, nuzzling her neck. It was such an intensely private moment that Anita felt like a voyeur, and she got up, walking away. She closed the door as quietly as possible, then went downstairs to phone Briscoe to come pick her up.

Jack and Claire were on the couch, lengthwise, his legs wrapped around hers and his arms holding her close. "You don't have to do it," he said, and kissed her ear.

"I do. Neither one of us wants this, needs this. It isn't fair to anyone, including a child. It's just really bad timing, with the Larkin case."

"Don't worry about that." He brushed her hair off her forehead. "We will have to tell Adam, though, we'll need the time off for the procedure."

She sighed. "I guess so, though I'd rather eat dirt than tell Adam I was stupid enough to get knocked up." She turned in his arms, her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "I'll make an appointment with my doctor in the morning."

He nodded. "OK."

"I thought you were going to be so pissed."

"At myself, maybe. Never at you." He curled hair behind her ear. "Never at you."

The appointment for termination was scheduled for the following Wednesday, at one o'clock. Jack and Claire waited until after close of business to talk to Adam, the day she returned from her appointment with her gynecologist, with the appointment hanging over her head. Jack knocked on the side door, and they heard Adam's grumpy invitation to enter. He shrugged, they would never catch Adam in anything resembling a good mood. They walked in and closed the door. Adam looked up from his desk, noticed they were holding hands, and frowned.

"Just hold it, Adam," Jack said. They sat uninvited, still holding on to each other, Jack felt Claire needed the touch, the support, to get through this. "Claire and I have a problem, and we're taking care of it next week, but we'll need the afternoon off, she may need the day after, too."

"And what problem is so pressing that you want time off during the Larkin case, when we have the attorney general's lackey breathing down our neck?"

Claire took a deep breath. "I have to terminate a pregnancy, Adam."

He stared at her for a moment, then looked at Jack, and his expression softened. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know it can't be an easy decision for you, Claire. Take what time you need." He looked at Jack. "You're going with her? What day?"

"Wednesday," Jack said.

He nodded. "Take damn good care of her. I assume you've arranged things."

"The calendar is clear for Wednesday, Judge Burton was most accommodating when I told him I had to track down an old Army buddy of Larkin's, that I'd be ready Thursday morning."

"Good." He cleared his throat. "I am sorry, let me know if there's anything I can do." They were dismissed, and they rose. Jack put his arm around Claire as they crossed to the door, he glanced back at Adam, who was watching them with a sad expression.

Jack and Claire arrived at the clinic on time. Claire was not doing well, she was alternately teary and determined, not being allowed to eat or drink did not help matters. Jack stayed with her as long as he could, and when she was wheeled away on a gurney, already groggy and about to slide into oblivion from the medication, his heart sank. A nurse showed him to a private waiting area, and sat on a lumpy couch, allowing his emotions to surface for the first time. She was doing this for him, left to her own devices, her own heart, she would have had his child, derailing her career without too much thought, but she knew he felt he was too old, that he did not want to have another child, having failed miserably at fatherhood once. His sweet Claire was so strong, so determined to do what she thought was right for him, for both of them, she was taking it all, as it was her body that contained the embryo, so it was her heart, her mind, her soul that would bear the brunt of it. All he could do was be there for her in whatever way she needed.

They came for him an hour and a half later, leading him into a curtained room where Claire lay, awake, on a gurney. She reached for his hand. "I want to go home," she whispered, and he looked at the nurse.

"As soon as the doctor checks her out, she can go," she said. "She'll be along in a few minutes."

Jack held her hand, wiped the tear that slid out of her eye, bent to kiss her forehead. He had no idea what to say to her. It made him angry that she had to endure it, that he couldn't do it for her. The curtain parted, and Dr. Karr walked in, wearing light blue scrubs. "Mr. McCoy," she said, easing him out of the way. "How are you, Claire?"

"A little woozy."

"To be expected, you'll probably sleep the day and most of the night away. You can return to work the day after tomorrow if you feel up to it. I'm prescribing some Percocet for any residual cramping. Rest today, tonight, see how you're feeling tomorrow. No sex for at least two weeks. Any problems, any heavy bleeding, cramping, emotional breakdowns, call me, you have my private number." She looked at Jack. "Be careful getting her home, she's going to be a tad unsteady. You should help her dress." She took Claire's hand. "Shouldn't be any problems, Claire, but again, call me if there are. I want to see you in a month." She patted Claire's hand and left. Jack helped her dress, walked her out of the clinic, and drove her home, where he put her to bed. She was completely silent.

He felt as miserable as he ever had in his life. He got on the bed beside her, and when she didn't resist, put his arms around her. She turned to him, burying her face in his shoulder, and he rubbed her back. She fell asleep that way, and he continued holding her, whispering to her, telling her he loved her, until he, too, fell into an uneasy sleep. He woke at three, suddenly alert, the bed beside him was empty, and he rolled out, walking into the living room. She stood at the windows, looking out into the night. He came up beside her, and she turned to look at him. He put his arm around her shoulder, she felt so thin, defenseless, she shivered in the chill of the night.

"Come back to bed," he said. She nodded, and he led her back to the bedroom, got her down, then pulled off his pants and slid under the covers with her, drawing near.

"Jack."

"Yes."

"We'll never speak of this again."

"No." He held her face against his. "I'm so sorry you had to go through it."

"So am I. I'm going to try very hard not to think about it. I want to go back to work, get on with life, our life." She was crying, and he wiped her tears with his thumb. "So, we'll never talk about it, OK?"

"OK."

She turned on her side and backed into the curve of his body. He covered them both, then drifted back into sleep, his arms holding her close, anchored to his heart.

She was up, drinking coffee, when he got out of the shower. He dressed, then joined her on the couch. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her eyes regarded him warily, but he had to ask. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. A little crampy, but I'm fine. Go to work, I know Adam expects you there, you have a motion hearing, right?"

"Right." He sipped his coffee. "The 737 hearing, dueling shrinks."

"I still have to re-interview his sister. Can you have Tim set that up for first thing in the morning? She's had several visits with her brother, she should have something to offer."

"Yeah, sure, I'll take care of that." He looked at his watch, he didn't want to leave her, but he had to get to work. He took his mug to the sink and washed it, placing it in the rack, then came back to her, sitting close. "Call me if you need me, I'll try to come home for lunch."

She smiled. "No need, Jack, I'll be fine. I'll just lie on the couch, watching talk shows and soap operas."

"We'll see. I'll bring dinner home."

"Thanks, old pal." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Go, before Adam pops a screw, God knows who'd replace him if he keeled over."

He got up and picked up his helmet. "Call me, I mean it."

"I will." She watched him, he hesitated, then he sighed and walked out, the door closing softly. She stared at it for a minute, then got up for more coffee and a couple of the Percocet Dr. Karr prescribed. Then she grabbed her pillow off her bed and went back to the couch, found the remote, and settled in, dragging an afghan over her legs, feeling empty and wrong and not at all free to make choices.

She went back to work the next day. She chose not to go in with Jack, she took more time with dressing and makeup than usual, then she drove to Hogan Place and walked back into the workplace. She smiled, she waved, he said good morning, she got coffee, then she settled in her office and awaited Selah Hussein.

Selah walked in promptly at nine-thirty, and Tim was quick with coffee, closing the door as he left them to get down to it. Claire was not feeling well, physically or emotionally, she was not prepared to play games with this woman. After initial pleasantries, she said, "OK. What can you tell me about your brother, about his motivation, about anything that would remotely spur him to such savagery."

Selah smiled, she looked like a merry gremlin about to sprinkle magic mischief dust all over the office. "Kumar is very ill, Claire, surely you know that, Mr. McCoy knows that. It seems he had a close call with Death, and so he got a case of religion, it happens, you know. And in studying, he read of what Americans in our holy land were doing, how your women were defiling it, refusing to wear chadors and veils, bringing alcohol in on their planes, all of that, which Kumar found offensive." She shrugged. "Do you blame him? Then he's assigned to work on a show starring a 'hero' of that little incursion into Iraq - I know you know it by now, but we're Jordanian in origin - and he began listening to this 'hero's' war stories. Of taking delight in humiliating Iraqi women by searching them, by shooting people for sport, of burying Republican Guard troops alive in their trenches with bulldozers. It began to prey on his addled mind, and one day, when he was working with the prop man, he substituted a real sword for the fake one, and took advantage of his opportunity, thinking he was acting for God. Just a few more drops of blood spilled in God's name, something that will never change, not as long as people believe in God and that He speaks to them." She pulled on the crease of her pants. "Sin to one person is pleasure to another. Kumar believed this man was taking great pleasure in sinning. Have you ever sinned, Claire?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "Irrelevant. I'm human, if there's such a thing as sin, I'm sure I've done my share of it."

"Well, Kumar most surely believes in it, and does not believe he sinned in killing this man, does not believe he did wrong. In his opinion, this dead hero's war was nothing but a wide swath of sin seen as pleasure on his part, and he had to be punished for it. We can surely agree that's not sane behavior."

Claire nodded, then caught herself. "What I think doesn't matter, I'm not prosecuting the case, Jack will listen to our psychiatrists."

"Mr. McCoy doesn't listen to your opinions? How do you tolerate that?"

"I didn't say he doesn't listen to me, he does, but my opinion is not the one that carries weight when it comes to opposing or supporting the affirmative defense your brother's lawyer has put forth."

"And Mr. McCoy is a reasonable man?"

"Yes." Well, she thought, there were a legion of defense attorneys who would disagree with that, but screw them, it was Jack's job to make them miserable.

"Then he will understand that of course I will testify on my brother's behalf."

Claire shrugged. "I'm sure he wouldn't expect anything else."

She looked at Claire and her eyes darkened. "Are you well, Claire?"

"I'm fine," she snapped.

"Very well. You just seem pre-occupied, a little pale." She leaned down and grabbed her purse. "I guess I'll see you in court. Good day, Claire." She stood, smiled, and walked out of the office.

Claire got up, she needed to go to the bathroom. Coming out, she saw Adam in the hallway, he beckoned to her. Sighing, she shouldered her purse and followed him into his office, closing the door.

"How are you, Claire?"

He never called her by her first name unless the situation was personal. She tried to give him a bright smile. "I'm fine, Adam. Ready to work."

"Think you're ready to take on the world, eh?" He shook his head. "All right, I won't dispute it, but I will tell you that my daughter had an abortion a couple of years ago and it took her a long time to get over the emotional effects."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Adam, but really, I'm fine. Jack's been great, Mr. Responsibility, and I'm young, I heal fast. Thanks for caring, though."

"Let me know if you need time off, Claire."

"I will, but I'm fine, really."

"OK."

Dismissed, she left his office for Jack's. Jack was leaning back in his desk chair, feet up on his desk, reading. He got to his feet the second he saw her and she waved him back to his chair. "What are you reading?"

"Allegations of misconduct by American soldiers during Desert Storm, put out by some German human rights group." He tossed the document aside. "How's it going?"

He could ask her that, she knew, it was his problem, his loss, as much as hers. "I'm OK. I just finished interviewing Selah Hussein, she'll be testifying for her brother, and she's going to make a very credible witness. She thinks he's nuts, and she can detail the changes from normal American kid to radicalized religious nut."

"You want her on cross?"

"Sure." She perched her hip on the corner of his desk. "I was thinking." She picked up a paper weight and absently fondled it, then put it down. "I think I'd like to be alone tonight, if you don't mind."

He moved beside her, his hand on her shoulder. "Claire? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I did the right thing, we aren't going to talk about it, but I just feel like I need to be alone tonight. That's all."

"OK. You can call me if you need me."

She nodded and got off his desk. "See you later."

She went back to work, she had enough to keep her busy until seven, and then she left, switching off her lights and glancing at Jack's office. He was looking at her through the glass, and she waved, put on a bright smile, and beat feet for the elevator. When she got home, she undressed, pulling on cotton drawstring pants and a long sleeved tee shirt, then got a Diet Coke and popped two more Percocet, she wouldn't take them at work but she'd been crampy all day. She put Pearl into her CD player and stretched out on the couch, her head on a throw pillow. Janis Joplin seemed appropriate for her mood, she had Jack to thank for her appreciation for the music of the sixties, man it was good stuff.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been drifting with the music when someone knocked on her door.

"Ah shit," she thought, and got up. She looked through the peephole. It was Anita. She opened the door and as she stepped back, said, "Jack send you?"

Anita came in, smiling. "No. The counselor and I are not speaking right now."

"Why's that?"

She leveled a look at Claire that would have sent a rookie running for cover. "You really didn't ask me that, did you?"

"I did. Help yourself to a Diet Coke." Janis was singing of the meaningless of freedom when you were alone, of her Bobby McGee, and Claire sank back on the couch, sitting this time, curling her bare feet under her bottom.

Anita came back and sat on the opposite end of the couch, opening the bottle. "I remember when she was with Big Brother and the Holding Company, in fact, she WAS Big Brother, they crashed and burned when she left them. God, what a voice, a white woman who could sing the blues." She looked at Claire and smiled. "I am not speaking to Jack because I tend to hold men responsible when women have abortions they really don't want. I'm all for freedom of choice in theory, but when a woman really doesn't want to do it, and does it to make the man happy, then I get pissed."

"Anita, I really don't want to talk about it."

"I know you don't. Who would? But sometimes you have to let your feelings out, and I'd guess you'd never let Jack see how much you're hurting."

"Jack isn't a bastard, Anita. He didn't make me do this. I knew, know, I'm not ready for motherhood."

She nodded. "And your heart is just fine, no guilt, no pain? Everything is hunky-dory? So where is our esteemed Mr. McCoy tonight?"

God, this woman could get right to the point. "I just wanted to be alone, that's all. A little space."

"Talk to me, Claire, before it eats you alive, and it will. I know."

She looked at Anita, the prosecutor's glint in her eyes. "And how do you know?"

"Been there, done that, shed buckets of tears over it, then got on with things."

"Which is what I'm trying to do."

"I had someone to talk it out with, Claire, I don't think I'd have gotten through the guilt, the pain, if I hadn't."

Tears collected in Claire's eyes, and she wiped them away with her sleeve. "I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to think about it."

"But you do. Think about it."

She hung her head, studying the striped pattern of her pants, letting tears splash the cotton. "All the time," she whispered. "I know it was the right thing to do, but I keep thinking was it a little boy, another Jack? A little girl, imbued with his pit bull tenacity and my countering reticence? I can't make those thoughts go away."

"Of course not, it's natural. It will get better, I promise." She sighed. "And Jack just goes merrily along, it doesn't much affect him, it was a problem and it was solved, and that pisses the hell out of you."

She looked up. "Sometimes he does. Other times, I can feel him hurt for me, and I don't know what to say to him." She sipped her Diet Coke, wetting her dry mouth. "But please don't say it doesn't affect him, it does. Buried under that screw the Church attitude is still a little Catholic boy."

Anita nodded. "I hope you get through it, that there's enough love between you to deal with it down the road, because it's really going to hit you when the due date comes around."

"Anita, with all due love and respect, shut the fuck up."

Anita smiled. "OK. It's just that I know what you're facing, maybe I can help you deal with it before it blindsides you."

Claire shook her head. "I just don't want to talk about it, please."

"All right, but you know where I am if you do."

She nodded. She walked Anita to the door, locked it, and changed the CD, back to Debbie Harry, and fell asleep on the couch.

She got to work early, jury selection began this morning, and she knew Jack would be in a pissy mood, having missed out on psychic ability when God was giving away the nutty gifts. He was already in his office. She stopped in the doorway and he looked up.

"How was your night?" he asked.

"I slept a lot." She walked in. "Anita dropped by, she seemed to think I had to talk about things, but I made it clear I didn't want to, so she took the hint and split."

"So you ready to work this morning?"

"Who pissed in your coffee this morning, Jack?"

He blushed. "Sorry. I'm just getting a lot of pressure from that AG asshole." He got up and stood very close. "I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that."

Her hand brushed his. "It's OK. And yeah, I'm ready for this, what's a little voire dire?"

The morning went normally, potential jurors were questioned, then challenges issued, jurors dismissed, and finally they had a jury that didn't please either side, but it was what they had. Opening statements would begin that afternoon, and Claire avoided Jack, when he was working on opening or closing arguments he was one royal pain in the ass. She'd put together witnesses who would describe Jeff Larkin, describe the dead hero's war, present him as an honorable man who had never done anything out of line with the code of conduct instilled in him at West Point. She spent the afternoon in final prep of these witnesses, searching for any surprise, any inconsistency, but found none.

It was after eight when she and Jack left, he followed her to her apartment, and they ordered Chinese. Claire showered while Jack waited for the delivery man, and came out to find him setting the table. She repressed a smile, God he was a sweet man and trying so hard, she wondered why she was the only one allowed to see this side of him. He answered the door when the delivery man arrived, then they sat down, he smiled shyly and she reached for his hand, holding it for a second. It was the kind of evening she loved, quiet, at home, with him, and she slept dreamlessly for the first time in weeks.

The trial dragged on, Hussein's lawyer was determined to paint his client as one sick whacko, infected by religion and insulted by a cavalier former soldier, and he was doing a good job. Jack couldn't shake expert opinion that a sane man could not, would not, have done what he did, not when religion and zealotry was mixed with anger and frustration. Their witnesses, who described the dead hero's war as honorable and unremarkable, scored points, but the defense picked at small points that grew in magnitude - a cavalier disrespect for a mosque, for example, pushing a woman out of the way for another. Jack had a migraine by the fourth day, when court ended he went to his office, pulled the blinds, and flopped on the couch. Claire slipped into his office, cradling his head in her lap, gently massaging his temples, but his hands reached for hers. "God, give me drugs," he moaned.

"Actually, I can do that, if we go to my house," she said. "I still have plenty of Percocet left over."

"Will you drive?"

"Of course."

She got him out of the office, out of Hogan Place, and into her car. He kept his eyes closed, head resting against the window, until she stopped the car and got out.

"C'mon," she said. She took his arm and helped him out.

She pulled her blinds, turning on the light over the stove for illumination, and got the pills as he sank into the couch. She gave them to him, watched him swallow them, and then she undressed him and directed him to bed.

"Stay with me," he whispered, "Please."

She got into bed with him, afraid to touch him, but he took her arm and pulled it around his waist. He soon slept, but she stayed with him; he'd done the same for her, after all, helpless as she was to do anything else. She finally drifted off, still in her clothes and on top of the covers, the heavy breathing of her lover lulling her into sleep.

Closing arguments on both sides were brilliant, reasoned, and convincing, and Claire had no idea which way it would go. She truly believed Hussein was sick, should be in a hospital, even though Jack argued passionately that he was indeed sane, had planned and executed a savage killing and the only remedy available was a conviction and the needle.

They went off for coffee as jury deliberations began. Claire didn't think a quick verdict was coming, Jack was more confident.

"Oh come on, man, what good is killing him going to do, if you win? He's sick, Jack."

He frowned. "It's convenient. He's no sicker than the average killer, why should he get special favors?"

She turned her cup on its saucer. "I don't think I want to have this discussion."

"He killed a man, Claire, why shouldn't he pay the price?"

She stood so fast Jack leaned back. "Yeah, well, so did I." She almost ran out of the diner. He sat there, bewildered, then got up to go after her, cursing his big mouth. He didn't see her when he got on the street, and he stood there, frustrated, then headed back to the courthouse, perhaps she'd go there to wait. He knew she carried her beeper, so if the verdict came in anytime soon, she'd be there.

He didn't see her. He fought the temptation to barge into the ladies' room, pacing the hall instead, getting angrier with himself as the minutes passed. Then he saw Sally Bell, walking out of an adjacent courtroom, and he called her over.

"Sally, do me a favor, please. Go in the ladies room and check for Claire Kincaid?"

"Your new assistant? You made her cry already? Damn, Jack, that's a record, even for you."

"C'mon, Sally, cut the shit, just please go see if she's there."

She must have seen something in his eyes, because she turned and made her way to the women's bathroom and disappeared through the swinging door. He leaned against a wall, hoping Sally would bring Claire out. Sally came out by herself and walked up to Jack. "Tall, slender, drop dead gorgeous?" Jack nodded. "She's sitting in there, all right, and she said you could go fuck yourself." Sally grinned. "Gotta love a woman like that. What's that all about?"

"Death penalty case. We disagree."

"And you made her cry over that? I should tell you to go fuck yourself, too, not everyone shares your desire to see killers strapped to tables to die a slow, torturous death, you know. Anyway, she's in there, she said she'd be out if the verdict came in, otherwise, leave her alone. I got the feeling she meant it."

"She did." He sighed. Then his beeper went off and he looked at it. "Guess she'll be out now. Thanks, Sally."

Sally touched his elbow. "OK, look, you're obviously nailing her, but for Chrissake, she's young, be kind, Resist that urge you have from time to time to be an asshole."

"I'll remember." He watched the restroom door. Claire came out, composed, and walked up to him. He wanted more than anything to put his arm around her, but instead he inclined his head toward their assigned courtroom. He nodded at Sally, then walked with Claire, the silence between them killing him. They took their places at the table, and Claire still wouldn't look at him. He finally leaned over and whispered, "I'm sorry, I am so goddamned sorry there aren't words for it. You know I wasn't referring to us, to what happened. You also know I'm an insensitive bastard sometimes. But I love you more than life itself and if you don't at least look at me, I'm --"

She turned and looked at him with wounded eyes. "Jack my love," she whispered back, "Shut the hell up. Let me get through this with my dignity intact. We can scream at each other later." She looked straight ahead again, and he dropped it.

The verdict came back not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect. Jack felt deflated, Claire felt vindicated. She left as soon as possible, not waiting for Jack, she hurried back to the office and told Adam she needed the remainder of the day, such at it was, off, and he nodded. Then she escaped Hogan Place, aware Jack would trail her like a bird dog. Still, he would have to deal with the press, and that gave her time, time to get her shit together, to try to relax and look at things rationally.

She took a long shower, then dressed in silk pajamas and matching robe, her day was done, by God. She thumbed through her CD rack until she found a Beatles CD, Sergeant Peppers, and she let it try to drown her thoughts. She hurt, her womb was contacting again, and she took another couple of Percocet, wondering when that crap would end as well, then flopped on her couch, taking the phone off the hook. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it, and let her tears flow, drawing her knees up and using the pillow to cover her face. There were so many tears to shed, she knew Jack didn't mean anything by what he said, but the words still hurt, the concept still applied, and as a lapsed Catholic he would know that. Still, she couldn't believe he'd hurt her deliberately, he just let his mouth run away with him. She refused to let her thoughts go to what might have been, she had the right to make the choice she did, in choosing her own life and career over something that wasn't wanted, would be resented, so why did it hurt so much?

She didn't hear her door open, but she sensed him, and she looked up. He stood there, his helmet dangling from his hand, unsure of his welcome and so blocking the threshhold. She said the first thing that came to mind: "Close the goddamn door, this is New York."

He came in and put his helmet down, then approached her with caution. He knelt beside the couch. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

She looked at him, then cupped his jaw with her hand. "I know you are. I am, too, sometimes my emotions run away with me, I guess I'm still hormonal from, uh, things. Doesn't mean you didn't hurt me, though."

"I know."

"And sending Sally Bell in to look for me? What was up with that?"

"We're, uh, good friends."

Her eyes narrowed, but humor lit them. "How good?"

He flushed. "She was my assistant at one time."

"Well, let's hope she was smarter than I was."

"Claire, it was an accident. Stop blaming yourself."

She moved her legs and patted the couch. "Oh, sit down like a civilized man."

He sat next to her, and then she surprised him, crawling into his lap and putting her arms around his neck. He held her, afraid to move, to speak. She didn't move, either. Finally, after the CD had started over, she looked at him, her finger on his chin.

"It's the Catholic boy in you," she said. "I think that's why it hurt so much."

He closed his eyes. "Oh God." Then he looked at her and took her finger, kissing it. "Never entered my mind. I just wanted to win the case. And I look at it as you did, win the case, I mean. You wanted to see him in a hospital. Where do you want to see me?"

She smiled, running her thumb along his chin. "Right here, for now. Just here. I want to feel safe and loved, to know I did the right thing for the right reasons."

"You are, you did, and I'll sit here as long as you want."

"Jack, please, don't hurt me again." There was real pain in her voice. "I don't care what the reason might be, an argument over a case, traffic, whatever, just please, don't hurt me again."

"I promise to try." He shrugged. "That's the best I can do, because I do hurt people, even when I don't mean to. But know that you're the last person I'd want to hurt, ever."

She rested her head on his shoulders, hoping those words wouldn't come back to haunt either of them. And the Beatles sang of Strawberry Fields forever.

END


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